


Colour Theory

by KarmaHope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But an Oblivious Potato, Endgame Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Engaged Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, F/M, Five Years Later, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is a Good Friend, Most of the time, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Post-Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, no infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29110974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarmaHope/pseuds/KarmaHope
Summary: “I do believe that’s my fault, actually.”Hermione whirled to face the newcomer only to stop short at the sight of none other than Draco Malfoy leaning against the doorframe. Her brain shorted. Distantly, she realized he was within the bounds of themuffliato. Even more distantly, she wondered how long he’d been standing there.She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came. Instead, she turned back to glare at Harry.“IknowI told you we're friends with him,” Harry said weakly.Hermione Granger really doesn't need complications as she readjusts to life in Britain, but complications might be exactly what Draco Malfoy didn't realise he was waiting for.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Comments: 33
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck JK Rowling. All the homies hate JK Rowling.
> 
> One of the first fanfics I ever wrote, 10 years ago, was dramione. I got one chapter in and later deleted it off both ff.net and my hard drive.
> 
> In a way, I've come full circle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione returns to England after five years abroad in Australia, but it's not exactly the homecoming she expected...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to Amiicee_Lokei for betaing, cinnqtea for britpicking, and quietseraphim for egging me on as always! And to the rest of my cross-fandom dhr friends who supported me in this endeavour.

Hermione Granger arrived in London at eight o’clock in the evening, local time, and promptly puked all over her ratty old trainers.

Crookshanks yowled in protest from his carrier, and Hermione groaned. Portkey travel was awful, to begin with, even for short hops. Unfortunately, the side effects only grew worse the farther one jumped. She had never been able to handle the trip between London and Sydney, no matter how many anti-nausea measures she employed, both Muggle and magical.

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a mo’,” she told her cat, spitting the last of the bile to the cobblestones. “It’s not like I enjoy this any more than you do.”

A soft growl sounded in reply. Did Portkey travel affect cats the same way it did humans? Crookshanks _never_ got sick the same way Hermione did, and she envied him for it. With a sigh, she dropped the Portkey—now just a glass jar—and released her wand from its arm holster. With a quick _scourgify,_ it was as if nothing had ever happened.

Well, apart from the fact her stomach still gurgled unpleasantly.

Hermione swallowed against her discomfort as she took in her surroundings. She was in a dingy alleyway, complete with uneven cobblestones, discarded barrels, and the faint smell of piss. A rat skittered past her feet, and the cat carrier lurched as Crookshanks threw himself at it.

Shaking her head affectionately, she drew up the hood of her cloak and walked out of the alley. As the scent of the alleyway faded, tears welled in her eyes as she breathed in the crisp, British air for the first time in just over five years. A rush of calm washed over her. She was home.

A man rammed into her shoulder, knocking her off balance. “Oi!” he called back at her. “Watch where you’re going, mate!”

Some things never changed.

Careful to keep her face covered, Hermione set off down the once-familiar street of Diagon Alley. In the dark, she could almost pretend it remained as it was during her Hogwarts years, although she knew that not to be the truth. Five years was a long time, with or without a war. That was something Hermione knew well.

So, perhaps, she shouldn’t have been as surprised as she was.

The Leaky Cauldron stood where it always had, a looming—yet welcome—presence at the end of the street, beyond which lay Muggle London. Even in the dim evening light, Hermione could see that the pub had been spruced up sometime in the last five years. Raucous laughter burst from inside. Taking a deep breath, Hermione pushed open the door.

The inside of the pub was much cleaner than Hermione remembered it ever being before. It was still dark and well lived-in, but it had the air of a much more reputable establishment. The polished tabletops shone in the warm lamplight.

She kept her head down as she approached the counter. Hopefully, Tom would be discreet. She had no desire to end up plastered on the _Prophet_ ’s front-page tomorrow. It would happen sometime, but the longer she could put it off, the better.

“Good evening, welcome to the Leaky Cauldron. What can I get for y– _Hermione?_ ”

Hermione looked up sharply. To her utter shock, it wasn’t Tom behind the bar, as it always had been. It was Hannah… She clawed desperately for the woman’s last name. Abbot. How could she forget?

This was weird.

“Erm,” Hermione said. “Yeah. It’s me. What happened to Tom? Is he…?”

Hannah blinked at her for a moment, then chuckled. “Oh! No, no, he’s fine. Retired a couple years ago. After everything… y’know. It took it out of him.”

Hermione winced. Not half an hour back and the ghosts were already beginning to haunt her.

“So, what’re you doing here?” Hannah asked. She kept her voice low enough that someone would have to get mighty close to hear over the roar of the pub. “Last I heard, you was off in Australia doing your smart-girl thing.”

As much as Hermione hated being reduced to just her brains, she had to smile at Hannah. The girl had never been the brightest when it came to schoolwork, and she’d been a much-needed friend when Hermione returned for her eighth year. After missing most of her sixth year, Hannah had graduated a year late as well.

“I was,” she said. “But I graduated and, well, England will always be home. Thought it was a good time to come back.”

Hannah nodded. “As good a time as any, I suppose. It’s not like much changes around here, these days. Oh! Does Neville know you’re back? I’ll have to tell him, he’ll want to see you.”

“Well, I’ll be here,” Hermione said. “I was actually hoping I could get a room for a couple nights, until my lease begins.”

“Of course!” Hannah exclaimed. “I’m sorry, I got so caught up in the fact you _were_ here that I forgot to ask _why_ you were here.” She paused. “You’re not staying with Harry and Ginny?”

Hermione raised her brows. “While they’re dealing with a one-year-old? I couldn’t impose. I’m seeing them for dinner tomorrow, though.”

“Well, that’s alright, then! Lemme see what I have free for you.”

Hermione laughed. “Thanks, Hannah.”

As Hannah looked through her books, Hermione dug in her purse for some change to pay for the room. She pulled out a handful of coins, and her heart sank. She only had australs and chancy with her. She’d meant to exchange them for galleons and sickles before she left, but that task had fallen by the wayside with everything else she’d had to get sorted.

“Looks like we’ve got some rooms free on the second floor,” Hannah said, “so I’ll give you the one that doesn’t have anyone next to it. That work?”

“Sounds great, Hannah. Erm… can I pay you tomorrow? I haven’t got any galleons on me right now.” She held up the handful of Australian coins with a wry smile.

Hannah laughed. “I trust you won’t do a runner, Hermione. Go on up. Breakfast starts at eight– I can bring something up for you if you don’t want to sit down here.”

Hermione winced. “That’d be lovely. Just until tomorrow evening. I’d really like to see my friends before I have to deal with the rest of Wizarding Britain.”

“Say less. Neville’s had to deal with the press enough these last few years, so I know what it’s like. Off you go, then. Before anyone else realises who I’m talking with.”

“Here.” Hermione gave Hannah one each of an austral, a chancy, and a bob. “The austral’s only worth about half a galleon, but it’s a novelty, at the very least.”

“Ta,” Hannah said. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Hermione had woken up maybe three hours ago, at five o’clock in the morning Sydney time, but she hadn’t slept very well—or very long—last night. When she reached her room—Room 23—she freed Crookshanks from his carrier. He jumped up onto the bed and watched as she pulled her trunk from her purse, cast a quick _engorgio_ to return it to its proper size, and changed back into her pyjamas.

With a sigh, she fed him. She supposed it _was_ technically evening, even if his morning feeding had been only three hours ago. As he munched, Crooks’s tail twitched in what she could only consider being a victory wave.

Cats.

With the vague feeling that she had forgotten something, Hermione collapsed into bed and slept straight through to morning.

* * *

She woke to the sound of insistent tapping. Bolting upright, she grabbed for her wand as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. She scanned the room quickly and spotted nothing out of order but Crookshanks sitting on the windowsill, his tail twitching madly.

Beyond the glass, Hermione made out the silhouettes of two owls against the morning sunlight. As she watched, a third barrelled in for a landing. The other two screeched in displeasure at the disturbance.

She dropped her wand. “Shit.”

That was what she was supposed to do last night! She’d promised both Harry and Ron that she’d owl as soon as she made it to the Leaky safely. International Portkey travel was—for the most part—safe, but it did come with its own risks.

Hermione rolled out of bed and pulled her bed robe on to ward against the spring chill. Giving Crookshanks a stern look, she popped the window latch and threw it open. The three owls jockeyed for position and made their way inside.

She planted her hands on her hips as she surveyed the birds before her. The first was a barn owl, an elegant bird with a heart-shaped face. The second owl, she recognised, and her heart leapt. Pigwidgeon! He was looking a little rougher these days, but it was definitely Ron’s owl. He cocked his head at her and hooted softly. The newcomer was a long-eared owl that towered menacingly over Pig.

They all looked at her expectantly. Did she even have owl treats? She’d fallen out of the habit of carrying them, but she must have a few left from university buried in her purse.

Pig launched himself and landed on her shoulder. She laughed as he nipped at a few hairs that had fallen loose from the braid she’d pulled it into the night before. “Alright, alright! Let me see what I’ve got.”

To her relief, she found a handful of (probably stale) owl treats. She handed them to each messenger in turn, who scarfed them down eagerly. Not too stale then, she supposed.

She took the letter from the elegant barn owl first, as she guessed the creature came from Harry and Ginny. Harry had e-mailed her when Ginny bought the owl shortly after their wedding. It was convenient having an owl again, he'd said, but he still missed Hedwig. Hermione tried to remember its name as she opened the message.

_Hermione,_

_You never owled us last night, so we_ should _be worried, but Bluebell seems to think she can deliver this message to you, so you have to at least be in the country. Send a message back with her– she knows to wait for a reply._

 _If you’re safe at the Leaky and not dead in a ditch somewhere in the English countryside, we look forward to seeing you at dinner tonight. We’ve missed you! If you_ are _dead in a ditch somewhere, you need not reply._

_Love,_

_Harry & Ginny_

Hermione grinned and shook her head. Harry always had been a bit of a smart-aleck, and he hadn’t lost it in the intervening years. She always looked forward to receiving his e-mails. It was almost weird to have received a handwritten letter from him instead! His handwriting certainly hadn’t improved.

“Thank you, Bluebell,” she told the owl. “Can you wait a bit longer? It seems I’m popular this morning.”

Bluebell hooted softly, which she took as permission.

The letter Pigwidgeon carried from Ron said much the same as Harry's, if a little more dramatic, as he claimed they'd been worried sick. He also said they were looking forward to seeing her tonight, and for the first time since they'd broken up six months after she moved to Australia, the feeling was entirely mutual.

The third letter, carried by the large owl currently locked in a staring contest with Crookshanks, was from Neville. Hannah told him she was back in town, and he had a free period after lunch today, so would she mind if he popped in for a bit?

Hermione dashed off three responses. No, she was not dead in a ditch somewhere in the English countryside. Yes, she would be at dinner tonight, and she was looking forward to seeing everyone. No, she wouldn’t mind at all if Neville popped in during his free period. In fact, she’d very much like that.

The owls sent on their way, Hermione sat down on the bed and watched Crookshanks bat at the feathers left behind. That was a bit of excitement she hadn’t expected!

She had only just finished getting dressed when a knock sounded at the door. Hoping it was Hannah, Hermione called, “Come in!”

Fortunately, it _was_ Hannah, with a tray of various breakfast foods and that morning’s copy of _The Daily Prophet_. “I didn’t know what you’d like,” she said as she placed the tray on a side table, “so I got you a bit of everything.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I really appreciate all this.”

Hannah winced. “Don’t go thanking me yet,” she said, a little chagrined. “You haven’t seen this morning’s _Prophet_ yet.”

“No,” Hermione said, her heart dropping into her stomach. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t.” Hannah rushed to assure her as she handed over the paper. “But _someone_ did.”

Hermione unfolded the paper, steeled herself, and peeked at the headline.

_Hermione Granger, Home at Last?_

_Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin, Gryffindor’s Golden Girl and the Brightest Witch of Her Age, arrived in London at precisely eight o’clock yesterday evening via international Portkey…_

She groaned. “Don’t worry, Hannah. It’s not your fault. It looks like someone in the Portkey Office saw the registration and snitched.” She checked the author. Not Skeeter, at least. She’d take small victories where she could.

“That’s what it sounds like, judging by how the article’s worded. Sorry, Hermione. I know you wanted to keep it quiet for a bit.”

Hermione shrugged. “It is what it is.” She always knew it wouldn’t be long, which was why she’d put a down payment on a modest little house in Muggle London with a fireplace she could connect to the Floo network. The wizarding press was much less likely to interfere with her life there.

Buying a house was a considerable investment, but it would be cheaper in the long run, and she wouldn't risk a Muggle landlord looking over her shoulder. Fortunately, the exchange rate between the galleon and the pound was favourable.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Hannah said. Her eyes fell on the discarded feathers. “Oh, did Neville contact you? He said he would.”

“Yes, he did. He’s going to pop in during his free period this afternoon. Would you care to join us?”

Hannah grinned. “Don’t have to ask me twice.”

* * *

Hermione spent the rest of her morning buried in a book. Some, perhaps, might feel stifled at the prospect of being unable to leave their room, but Hermione didn’t mind. She relished the peace and quiet, the rare moments when she quite literally _couldn’t_ worry about anything else.

She spent her most formative years always on edge about one thing or another. It was hard not to be, what with end-of-term exams and the madman hell-bent on killing her best friend and taking over wizarding Britain. It had taken loads of time and even more therapy before she finally learned to slow down.

That said, it was easier in Australia where nobody knew—or cared—who she was. Hermione thought she had been prepared for her return to England, but the knot of anxiety she felt upon seeing the _Prophet_ ’s headline refused to dissipate.

She steadfastly ignored it in favour of her book and Crookshanks’s soft fur.

Neville joined her and Hannah for lunch that afternoon, though he was a bit late due to getting caught up in answering a student’s question. They floated the idea of going out to eat with Hermione wearing a glamour, but in the end, Hannah brought food up from the Leaky’s kitchen, and they ate on a conjured blanket spread across the floor of Room 23.

It felt almost like they were back at Hogwarts again, hanging out in the common room and eating snacks pilfered from the kitchens. Those snacks sometimes turned into meals during their eighth year, when none of them particularly felt like facing the whole school down at dinner proper.

Neville was almost exactly as Hermione remembered, and for a time, it was almost as if she had never left. Amidst bites of chicken and mushroom pie, he recounted the handful of months he spent as an Auror immediately following the war before launching into a discussion about his placement at Hogwarts with much more enthusiasm.

Hermione was content to sit back with her fish and chips and let him ramble on, asking questions every so often. She learned his owl’s name was Woodsley. When he turned the conversation to her, Hermione told him what she could about Australia and university. It was hard, since she had split her time fairly evenly between the Muggle and wizarding worlds. Occasionally she slipped, only to be met with befuddled looks on both Neville’s and Hannah’s faces.

Alas, it wasn’t long before Neville had to return to Hogwarts and Hannah was needed back down on the floor of the Leaky. Hermione waved goodbye to her friends with promises that they’d do this again soon.

Neville turned to her before he stepped into the Floo. “Good luck at dinner tonight.”

“Um… thanks?”

Hermione stared into the fireplace long after the green flames faded back to orange. Luck? Why would she need luck? She was just getting dinner with Harry, Ginny, and Ron…

Crookshanks wound around her ankles and yowled. Scooping him into her arms, she put Neville’s words from her mind.

That is, until it came time to Floo to Harry’s house for dinner.

Hermione hesitated before the hearth, a handful of Floo Powder cupped in her hand. She couldn’t explain her sudden reluctance. This was _Harry_ and _Ron_ she was about to see. The two best friends she’d ever had!

Well… Okay. Ron, she could understand. They had split amicably and had gotten along just fine when she returned for Harry and Ginny's wedding two years ago, but a hectic Weasley wedding was a far cry from a quiet dinner at home. She knew he had started dating again, which was fine. She wasn't holding a torch for him; she had a few short-lived relationships herself during her time in university.

So maybe that wasn't it. Maybe Neville's words had just affected her more than she thought. "Good luck" was just something people said, right? It didn't _mean_ anything.

Hermione wiped her free palm against her jeans. She’d thought about dressing up a bit, but in the end, she hadn’t. It was Harry and Ron and Ginny. And little James, but he wasn’t even one year old yet. Far too young to have an opinion on what she wore.

Beside her, Crookshanks cocked his head and mewed inquisitively.

She sighed. “I’m being silly, aren’t I? I should just go.”

Crooks blinked slowly.

That was an agreement if she had ever seen one, and she couldn’t put it off any longer. She straightened her back and steeled her nerves. Drawing a deep breath, she tossed the powder into the flames.

“Twelve Grimmauld Place!”

* * *

Hermione had forgotten just how cramped and filthy the British Floo Network was, especially in London. She stumbled out of the hearth at 12 Grimmauld Place, soot clouding both her eyes and her lungs. Stifling a cough, she blinked fiercely until the warm tones of the refurbished sitting room no longer blurred before her.

A thin layer of Floo Powder still coated her hand where it had stuck to her sweaty palm. Wrinkling her nose, Hermione wiped it off on her jeans.

“Hermione!”

Her heart leapt at the familiar cry of her name. Ginny stood from the armchair, little James nestled against her hip. Neither of them seemed to care that Hermione was still covered in soot and had yet to clean herself off as Ginny crossed the room and embraced her.

“Oh, I missed you,” Hermione said, stepping back after giving her friend a good squeeze. “And who’s this? Is this James?”

James pressed closer to his mother, watching Hermione with wide, wary eyes. She waved and grinned at her godson, then turned back to Ginny. “He looks just like Harry.”

Ginny smiled fondly. “Yes, he does. Gets into about as much trouble, too. Look, Hermione. About Harry–”

Hermione met Ginny’s eyes in concern. “Is he alright?”

Ginny waved her off, but there was an urgency in her motions. “Yes, yes. Don’t fret. But I’m afraid there’s something he didn’t tell y–”

“Ginny?” A feminine voice called up the stairs. “Ron wants to know if–”

Hermione froze as the woman walked into view.

“Oh.” Pansy Parkinson said, giving Hermione a cursory once-over. “She’s here.”

She shrank beneath the woman’s critical gaze even as her mind raced to figure out what was happening. Pansy hadn’t returned to Hogwarts to finish her seventh year, so Hermione hadn’t seen her since the end of the war, but her pug nose and dark hair were unmistakable.

Pansy raised a perfectly-manicured brow and looked pointedly at Hermione’s thigh. “You know Floo Powder doesn’t come out of fabric very well. That’s going to stain.”

“I– You– I–” Hermione’s brain failed her. Her one clear thought was that she should have dressed better. She shot a panicked look at Ginny. “What?”

Ginny grimaced. “There are… a few things my darling husband neglected to mention. Pans, can you watch James for a minute? Hermione and I are just gonna…” She gestured toward the kitchen with her head. 

_Pans?_

Pansy’s red-painted lips formed into a perfect ‘O’ as she glanced toward Hermione again. “Yes, of course,” she said, stepping forward and holding out her arms. “Come here, buddy.”

James grinned and giggled, and something sharp pierced through Hermione’s chest at the stark contrast to his reaction to her just a few minutes prior.

What was going on here?

Feeling like she’d just stepped into the Twilight Zone, Hermione didn’t even protest as Ginny grabbed her wrist and dragged her down to the kitchen. 

Both Harry and Ron were there, leaning against the counter as they talked. A rush of comfort and familiarity washed over at the sight of them. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to fling her arms around them and hold them tight. When they looked up, Hermione pulled her arm from Ginny's grasp.

“Hermione!” Harry exclaimed. “I’m so relieved we don’t have to search the English countryside for your corpse.”

Ron just smiled tentatively, apprehension clear in his eyes.

Hermione flashed a smile at Harry's quip, then sighed. She pulled out her wand and cast a quick _muffliato_ before planting her hands on her hips and levelling a glare at her two best friends. 

Harry gulped. He looked past her to Ginny, then back, chagrined.

“Would somebody mind telling me what the _hell_ is going on here?” Hermione demanded, struggling to keep ahold of her temper. “Why is _Pansy Parkinson_ out in the drawing room watching James like it’s a regular occurrence?”

“Er… because it is?” Harry said. Beside him, Ron had gone as red as a tomato. “I did tell you Ron and Pansy were dating, yeah?”

Hermione clenched her fists as she racked her brains. She and Harry exchanged so many e-mails over the years, often about completely inconsequential matters. He’d never tried to keep Ron’s dating life from her after they split, and she appreciated that, but…

“Months ago!” she cried, finally remembering a passing line she’d shrugged off at the time. “But it’s _Pansy!_ And Ron was going through girls like chocolate frogs, how was I supposed to even _consider_ that it would last?”

“Oi!” Ron squawked.

Harry turned to him and shrugged. “It’s true, mate.”

“Not you, too!”

“Ron,” Hermione said, “you know I love you and want you to be happy but… Pansy Parkinson? Really? She bullied me incessantly in school! She spread nasty rumours about Harry!”

“‘Mione, we were fourteen!”

“She _suggested they turn him over to Voldemort!”_ She stamped her foot in frustration. Ron gaped, clearly taken aback. Drawing a deep breath, Hermione glanced at the ceiling and made an effort to lower her voice. “I’m sorry, but… Really? How did this even happen?”

“I do believe that’s my fault, actually.”

Hermione whirled to face the newcomer only to stop short at the sight of none other than Draco Malfoy leaning against the doorframe. Her brain shorted. Distantly, she realised he was within the bounds of the _muffliato_. Even more distantly, she wondered how long he’d been standing there.

She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came. Instead, she turned back to glare at Harry.

“I _know_ I told you we're friends with him,” Harry said weakly.

Hermione didn't know whether she was about to scream or cry. The bottomless, empty pit that had opened in her stomach could be conducive to either. All she wanted was to have dinner with her best friends, friends whom she hadn't seen in two years, whom she hadn’t lived near in five. It wasn’t like she’d ever been under the impression that everything would be the same as it was before she left, but she still felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her.

Would it have killed Harry to say something, even if he thought she already knew?

Was this what Neville had meant earlier with “good luck”?

“Granger,” Malfoy said cordially, as if nothing was amiss. “You look well.”

“I– Er–” Hermione floundered. “You look–” _Good?_ No, no. Too much. “Better.”

Malfoy raised a disdainful brow. “Thanks. I hate to think that I could look worse,” he drawled.

Hermione winced. The last time she’d seen Malfoy was on the train home from their eighth year. She hadn’t seen much of him that year—no one had—but she couldn’t forget his wan complexion and emaciated figure. The aftermath of the war hadn’t been kind to anybody, but Draco Malfoy least of all.

“Look, mate,” Malfoy said over her shoulder to Harry, “I appreciate the invite, but... perhaps I should go. I did tell you this wasn’t a good idea.”

Hermione didn’t know what it was, but all the fight left her at his words. She shook her head ruefully as she turned. “Right. ‘Cause Harry’s always been known for his good ideas.”

She offered him a small smile as reassurance she was only joking. Mostly. Behind her, she thought she heard Malfoy suppress a snort of laughter.

At some point, Ginny had left the room to return to James and Pansy. Ron remained, his gaze darting between Harry, Hermione, and Malfoy as if he were watching a three-way tennis match. God, she’d been so rude to him, hadn’t she? This wasn’t the homecoming she’d imagined at _all._

And, although she knew she wasn’t the one who fucked up, she felt compelled to apologise.

"No," she said. It pained her to do so. "You don't have to go. I know things have changed and you lot are friends, and I'm… I'm sorry. What right do I have to barge in and take that from you?"

“Stop it.”

Hermione’s eyes widened at Malfoy’s harsh tone. Was that… Had she somehow done something _wrong?_

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You’re not the one who should be apologising. In fact, I rather think you’re owed one. Or two.” He nodded toward Harry and Ron, then pushed off the doorframe back toward the stairs. “Let me know when we’re about to eat.”

Hermione sank into one of the kitchen chairs, unable to hold her own weight any longer. The boys rushed toward her, but she waved them off.

“I’m fine,” she said into the table. “I just… I need a minute.”

A brief scuffle occurred over her head. A moment later, Ron left the room, casting her an apologetic look as he did. Harry sat down beside her and pulled her into his shoulder. She hesitated for only a second before giving in, finding comfort in his once-familiar warmth.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said. “I really did think you knew. You remember _everything_. And I guess I didn’t think twice about it. We see them at dinner every week, anyway. Still… it was thoughtless of me. I should have warned you.”

“Yes, you should have,” Hermione agreed. “It was a bit of a shock.”

She felt Harry shrug. “We alright?”

Hermione turned to meet his eyes. “Harry James Potter, this is _not_ the worst thing you’ve put me through. Of course, we’re alright.”

Harry nodded. “And… You know it’s not Ron’s fault, yeah? He trusted me to be the point of connection, which we’ve established I’m rubbish at. Pansy… she’s been good for him, I think. She doesn’t let him get away with anything.”

Hermione sighed and patted his arm. “You don’t have to try to convince me, promise. I may not like her, but I’m not about to sabotage their relationship or anything. Let’s just get through dinner and see what happens, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry said, giving her a quick squeeze before standing. “Let’s eat. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m starving.”

* * *

Dinner went about as well as could be expected, all said and done. That is to say: polite, but quite strained. In the end, Hermione didn’t remember much of what was said. 

After the emotional upheaval of discovering Ron and Harry were close with Pansy and Draco—closer with them now than they were with her—she didn’t have the energy remaining to dedicate to engaging in conversation. She fielded questions about university and Australia but took care not to allude too strongly to the Muggle aspect. Did Draco and Pansy still look down on Muggles and Muggleborns? She didn't know. Even if they didn't, Hermione still wasn't up to the task of explaining certain things to everyone at the table but Harry. She’d already done that once today.

She checked out when the conversation fell away from her to bounce around the rest of the table. She didn't understand any of the in-jokes or the references to things that had happened since she moved away. Despite knowing this would be the hardest part, it still _hurt._ She found herself growing jealous of the two former Slytherins, absolutely green with envy, but she knew she couldn’t say anything.

She’d been a bitch already tonight.

When dinner finally wound down, Hermione offered to help clean up. Escaping back to the kitchen while the others went up to the drawing room filled her with a sense of relief… which she then felt guilty for. Escaping? From her best friends?

She shook her head. No. Not them. The others.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned. To her surprise, it wasn’t Ginny or Harry who followed her into the kitchen, but Ron.

Hermione shook her head and sighed, but her smile turned genuine. "They sent you back here to apologise, did they?"

“Er… yeah,” Ron said, shifting awkwardly with dishes held in his hands. “But I was gonna come anyway, promise!”

“I know,” she said, taking the dishes from him. She lifted an eyebrow. “Well?”

Ron laughed. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione. I wanted to tell you about Pans myself, but Harry and his a-mails were so much more convenient than sending an owl all that way.”

“E-mail,” Hermione corrected absently as she cast a cleaning spell. She dithered over what to say next, but she eventually just settled for: “You’re happy with her?”

“Incredibly,” Ron said. “She’s bloody brilliant.”

Hermione bit her lower lip in trepidation. “It’s going to take me some time,” she said. “But if you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”

Even if it felt personal, seeing her ex-boyfriend happy with her worst childhood bully.

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” Ron said. “You’re the best.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. She’d heard that one before. Together, in comfortable silence, they finished the washing-up in record time.

When it came time to re-join the others, though, Hermione begged off. She still wasn’t adjusted to British time, she said. And besides, she needed to go back to the Leaky and feed Crooks. He got mighty grumpy when he wasn’t fed on time… though she had warned him earlier that she might be back late.

The others seemed to accept her excuses. She hugged her friends, then nodded politely to Pansy and Draco. The latter caught her eyes just a moment too long, and something in his expression told her he had seen through her flimsy facade.

Well… whatever. What would he care? Mutual friends aside, it wasn’t like they were friends themselves. Resentment swelling, she Flooed back to the Leaky Cauldron, Room 23.

Crookshanks was curled on the end of the bed, but he sat up as she stumbled through. Mewing loudly, he jumped down and crossed the room to wind around her ankles. He looked up at her and tilted his head inquisitively as if to ask: "How did it go?"

“Oh, Crooks,” Hermione said, sitting down on the wood plank floor so she could pet him better, “I don’t know.”

And she burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's weird seeing e-mail with a hyphen nowadays. But considering this takes place in 2005, I think it's appropriate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy sets out to make amends and is faced with the fact that seven years of hurt can't be healed in one day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the amazing reception to this story!! There's a lot of exposition in this chapter, but it's necessary. Draco's POV is hard!
> 
> Again, many thanks to Amiicee_Lokei for betaing and cinnqtea for britpicking (and answering my questions)!

It was a good morning when Draco Malfoy didn’t wake up screaming.

The good mornings far outweighed the bad these days, but that made the bad mornings all the worse. They were unexpected. Shocking. Awful. They came every now and then to remind him of all the things he'd done, of those two horrid years that still defined the other twenty-two he'd lived.

But it was a good morning when Draco Malfoy didn’t wake up screaming.

Silencing his alarm, Draco lay back on his pillows as he gained his bearings. He took one deep breath, then another, basking in the rays of sunshine coming through the charmed window. There was always sunshine in his bedroom when he woke. He had found that dreary weather compounded upon bad mornings, which had led to some truly miserable days before he decided to do something about it.

None of the other windows in his home were charmed, but the one made all the difference.

With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet. As… interesting… as the weekend had been, it was Monday, and he was grateful for it. He knew Hermione Granger’s return to England would throw a spanner into the life he’d carved for himself, and yet he still hadn’t been prepared. 

He tried to push the thought of Friday’s dinner from his head. Dwelling on it only made him anxious; Saturday morning had been his first bad morning in a long time.

Draco dressed and readied himself for the day. Through the bathroom window, he saw that, while it wasn't sunny out, it wasn't raining, either. At least, not in Guildford. He wouldn't know of the weather in London until he got there.

He loved his house in Guildford. After his year-long house arrest confined him to the Manor, he'd wanted out immediately. He'd briefly considered buying a townhouse in London, but in the end, he decided he wanted both distance from the greater wizarding world and space to fly his broom.

The space was affluent—there was no denying that—but the grand house was much warmer and cosier than Malfoy Manor had ever been. He didn’t regret his decision for one minute of the four years he’d lived here, for all his mother had begged him to choose a place closer to home. 

Speaking of his mother…

A familiar owl waited for him downstairs in the kitchen, side-eyeing Hermes, Draco’s large eagle owl. Draco sighed. Not a morning passed that his mother didn’t send him some missive or another. He visited whenever he could, but she was lonely with him gone and his father serving a life sentence in Azkaban. Her house arrest had just recently expired, but he didn't know if she'd been brave enough to take advantage of that yet.

Maybe next weekend, he thought, he’d invite her on a day out. He knew he should have done so already, but he’d been busy.

Feeding Peony an owl treat, he took the message from her and set it down upon the kitchen table. Peony fled; if he wanted to respond, he’d have to do so using Hermes.

Draco read the note over breakfast and groaned. 

_My dear boy,_

_It has come to my attention that you have dinner plans with Astoria tonight. I strongly advise that you do not cancel on her again. This is a good match, Draco, for all you seem insistent on dragging your heels._

_Love,_

_Mum x_

Stifling a snort, Draco shook his head and burned the slip of parchment with a wandless _Incendio_. If he got his mother out of the Manor and found something more interesting for her to focus on, would she stop hounding him about his love life?

… Probably not.

Astoria Greengrass was perfectly lovely. His mother was right; it _was_ a good match. The Greengrass line was old and prominent but had, for the most part, managed to stay out of the war. While Astoria had attended Hogwarts, she'd been two years behind him and in Ravenclaw. They hadn't had much opportunity to cross paths.

Which meant she didn’t have preconceived judgements about who he was based on who he had been in school. Aside, perhaps, from whatever her older sister Daphne had told her. But he had never been particularly close with Daphne, either.

So, yes. It was a good match. In fact, it was probably the best match Draco could possibly make, all things considered. And yet…

He knew he should make more of an effort. Astoria was in no way deserving of his apathy, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t muster the energy or the enthusiasm she _did_ deserve. They’d been betrothed for almost three years now, and he knew she was eager to tie the knot.

He kept putting it off.

Summoning a piece of parchment and a quill, he wrote a quick response to his mother. He assured her that, yes, he would be there, but Astoria was perfectly capable of owling him herself.

He sent the message with Hermes before cleaning up his few breakfast dishes. That done, there was nothing left to do but to go to work.

Draco never expected that he would one day work as a Gringotts Curse-Breaker. Growing up, he always imagined that he'd be independently wealthy, as his father was. For a few years at Hogwarts, he briefly fancied the idea of a career in Potions. After his house arrest ended following the war, he had a go at being an Auror, but that hadn't lasted long. Funnily enough, witches and wizards who spent their days chasing Dark witches and wizards didn't much enjoy having one in their midst.

When he heard Gringotts created a Curse-Breaker division devoted to restoring domestically cursed items, Draco had thrown in an application almost on a whim. He had the qualifications, and he had experience with Dark items. Mostly, he'd just wanted out of the Auror division.

By that point, he was so done with the Ministry in general that he’d ignored the fact the Ministry had a Cursed Items and Artifacts division as well. 

Draco arrived at the nearest Apparition point to the bank with a _crack_. Straightening his robes, he nodded to the guards and hurried past the teller floor. He relaxed once he reached the Curse-Breakers’ workspace, greeting his co-workers by name and dodging both questions about his weekend and small-talk about the weather.

At long last, he reached his desk and pulled out his latest project. Leaving everything else at the surface, he settled in to help undo his family’s legacy.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when Draco finally broke the curse on the old bracelet he'd been working on for the better part of the week. Nasty piece of work, that. Passed through the old lines for generations, it was meant to be an engagement gift– one that would cut off circulation to a witch's hand if it wandered. A family heirloom, the wizard who brought it intended to use it to propose to his girlfriend. That is, if the curse could be lifted.

_If_ the curse could be lifted. Hah! As if there had ever been any doubt.

Dashing off a quick note to the bracelet’s owner, Draco informed the man he could pick it up tomorrow morning. Then, satisfied with the day’s work, he decided to take off work early. It wasn’t like he would make any good headway with a new project if he started one now.

With a quick goodbye to his co-workers—it wasn't uncommon for him to leave early on days he cracked particularly complicated curses—he headed toward the upper levels.

This was good, he thought, checking his wristwatch as he strode across the main floor. He still had several hours before he was meant to meet Astoria at the restaurant. If the weather held, he could take his broom out for a flight and still have enough time that he wouldn't feel rushed afterwards.

He was almost out the door when a newly-familiar voice caught his ear.

“What do you _mean_ my account’s been closed?”

He paused by the entryway and glanced back over his shoulder. Scanning the room, it wasn’t long before his eyes fell upon a short figure with a mess of curls barely corralled in the bun she wore. Had she… secured it with her _wand?_

"We're terribly sorry, Ms Granger," the goblin—Odbert, Draco thought—said, “but your account was inactive for five years, and our policy states–”

“I was in Australia!” Granger cried. “I used the Gringotts in Sydney!”

Draco knew he should just leave. Whatever mess Granger had gotten herself into, it was surely far less relaxing than a leisurely flight over the Surrey hills. It was none of his business, and, quite frankly, he had neither expected nor wanted to see her again so soon.

"Ms Granger, the UK Gringotts is not associated with its foreign branches." Odbert sounded almost bored.

“But I had–!” Granger stomped her foot and growled.

Then again, Draco thought, if he could help her… Well, that had to be worth something, right? He didn’t want to endure another dinner of hostile glares and resentful glances that sent him careening back to his less-than-stellar school days. He didn’t want to be asked to _not_ return to their weekly dinners, either.

Groaning silently, he resigned himself to a long, frustrating, _thankless_ afternoon and crossed the floor. Lifting his chin, he put on his most authoritative voice. “What appears to be the problem here?”

Granger froze, her eyes locked on the counter. Odbert blanched.

Draco couldn't help feeling smug. He didn't like throwing his family name around and generally avoided doing so. Still, he couldn't deny there was a certain rush to it that never got old.

“Mr– Mr Malfoy! You know these matters are most confidential.”

He barely avoided rolling his eyes. "Can't be too confidential if the whole floor heard it," he said archly. "Well, Granger?"

Granger flushed but lifted her eyes to meet his. There was suspicion in her gaze. Well-deserved suspicion, given their history, but it stung all the same. A few tense seconds passed before Granger’s shoulders sagged.

“Apparently, they’ve closed my account because I haven’t used it in five years, but I didn’t get so much as a notice. I had money in there!”

Draco tapped his fingernails against the counter as he mulled over her words. That didn’t sound right. There were old Malfoy savings accounts that hadn’t been touched in decades. The rhythmic beat filled a loaded silence. Odbert looked nervous, and Draco knew he had him.

“Funny, that,” he said, once the silence had grown uncomfortable. “I don’t recall any such stipulation in my contract. May I see it?”

“Only the contract holder may request a copy of his contract,” Odbert said, his words clipped.

Draco looked to Granger and raised his eyebrows in query.

Granger glared at him, then huffed. “ _Her_ contract,” she corrected. “And I would like to see it, please.”

“And mine as well, thanks.”

“Y– Yes. Of course, Mr Malfoy. Right this way, please, the both of you.”

Granger watched Odbert retreat, then turned on him. “What the _bloody_ hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

Her animosity was familiar but uncomfortable. Draco didn't deal with it much these days after his years-long campaign to reform himself and his image. He noticed she didn't ask what he was doing _here_ , specifically, so either Harry or Ron must have told her he worked at Gringotts.

His stomach turned at the thought of the three of them talking about him behind his back.

The moment stretched a bit too long. "Getting you your money," Draco said shortly. "Now shut up and follow my lead."

He took a few steps toward the private consulting offices before realising she wasn't beside him. When he looked back, she hadn't moved.

Merlin, she was stubborn.

He rolled his eyes. “Please?”

Granger must have sensed she didn't have much choice and followed.

“I am afraid,” Odbert said once they caught up, “that clients’ contracts are private. One of you will have to wait here.”

Draco almost cursed. _Why_ had he decided this was a better use of his time than flying? “I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, allow Ms Hermione–” he stumbled, realising he didn’t know her middle name– “Granger to view my contract with Gringotts Bank.”

Granger, somewhat reluctantly, repeated his words. He learned her middle name was Jean.

Odbert looked like he was about to explode but let them both into the consulting office all the same. When he handed them their contracts, Granger began flipping through hers furiously. Draco merely skimmed his. He’d spent far too much time going over his finances these past few years; he knew the rough layout of his contract already.

A quiet “oh” from beside him told Draco that Granger had found the section of her contract in question. Leaning over, he read over her shoulder.

_… In the case that the undersigned has not accessed his account in five years from the last time it was accessed (i.e., a withdrawal or a deposit), the account and its contents are subject to forfeit back to Gringotts._ …

“ _Her_ account,” Granger muttered. “It’s not that hard.”

Draco found the corresponding section in his own contract. “Granger,” he said. “Look.”

Granger snatched the parchment from his hands. Her eyes passed over it critically, and he knew what she would find. His contract did not contain the same clause. Her gaze met his briefly before she turned on Odbert.

“What,” she demanded, “is the meaning of this?”

Odbert cleared his throat. “You must understand. From Gringotts’ perspective, Muggle-borns are, historically, a flight risk. Since our inception, we have had hundreds of instances where a Muggle-born returns to Muggle life after Hogwarts and never closes the account. This clause merely ensures that the gold can be recovered in such a case.”

Granger was aghast. “You closed my account because I’m _Muggle-born?_ ” She rounded on Draco. “You _knew?”_

“Don’t look at me like I wrote the bloody thing,” Draco spat. “But yes, I suspected.”

Odbert glanced between them before focusing on Granger. "You read and signed the contract when you opened your account and thus are bound by it," he said. His voice was monotone. “You are welcome to open a new account with us.”

“When I was eleven!” Granger shouted, punctuating her statement by slamming her hand on the table. She leaned in. “And my parents are _Muggles!_ They didn’t know the first thing about magical contracts and what-have-yous! You took advantage, and you know it!"

Now that he wasn’t on the receiving end of her ire, watching Granger tear into someone was remarkably satisfying. He hadn’t noticed the other night, but she had just a bit of an Australian twang to some of her syllables that he didn’t remember from school.

He leaned back in his seat and crossed his ankles. Maybe this _was_ worth giving up flying for.

Granger shot him a glare. “I’m glad you’re having fun, at least.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” Draco replied, forcing a smile. “But Odbert, you _are_ aware that Granger’s contract here puts you in direct violation of the 1998 Anti-Discrimination Act, section seven, paragraph thirteen, yes? If word of this were to get out… Well, that wouldn’t look good for Gringotts, would it?”

Granger’s glare faded into a stare as he spoke. By the time he finished speaking, she looked positively gobsmacked.

Merlin, could she get off his case now?

If Odbert had been nervous before, it was nothing compared to now. “N– No, Mr Malfoy. It would not look good at all.”

“Right, then. How about you renegotiate a contract with Ms Granger here. Restore her old balance as–" he shrugged– "a signing bonus. And you may as well throw in the fee for violating the aforementioned act, which is—I believe—two hundred galleons?”

“Mr _Malfoy–_ ”

“Or I could go to the Prophet,” he said idly. “It’d be quite a headline, don’t you think, Granger?”

Granger, recovered from her shock, considered him for a moment. “Hmm,” she said, cocking her head a bit. “Sure would be.”

By now, Odbert had turned a stunning red colour. "Fine!" he snapped. "But you. Get out!"

Draco stood as Odbert procured the necessary parchments. “I think I’ll wait outside,” he told Granger.

He didn’t wait for a response. Once outside, he checked the time once again. If he left now, he might still be able to… 

Be able to... what, exactly? Leave her to think the worst of him? With a heavy sigh, he shook his head and settled in to wait.

* * *

He should have left.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Granger snapped as she left the office. Draco lengthened his stride to keep up with her furious pace. “Didn’t have much in my account, anyway.”

Draco, who had a considerable amount of gold in his account, knew there wasn't any right way to respond to that. "You have an extra two hundred galleons now," he said diplomatically.

Granger stopped dead on the top step of the bank. Draco was two steps down when he realised, and he turned with a huff. _Again?_ What was with her and her unwillingness to maintain forward momentum?

“Are you trying to buy me?” She had her hands on her hips, and with him a few steps down, she met him at eye-level. “Is that what this is? You feel guilty about Friday? Or, what– you can't stand the fact that someone isn't falling all over you and thought you might solve the problem with money?”

How _dare_ she–! Draco bit his tongue against the wave of anger that welled in his chest. They might not have gotten on in school, but at least _he_ wasn’t flinging baseless accusations.

The worst part was if he snapped at her, he knew Harry and Ron would hear about it.

“Sure,” he said tightly. “That’s exactly it. It wasn’t like I was leaving work and heard you having a problem I could help with. Not at all. Good day, Granger.”

Turning his back on her, he continued down the steps. What had he expected, really? For her to be grateful? For her to _not_ be suspicious? Salazar's left tit. He should have just left her alone.

He had just reached the street when he sensed Granger beside him once again. A heartbeat later, she called his bluff. “Did it work?”

“Sod off.”

They walked together, the silence tense. When they passed the Apparition point, Draco didn't peel off. Just as before, something kept him there. Granger really had been put in an unfair position, he mused, especially if her friends— _their_ friends—hadn’t warned her. Considering their history…

He sighed. Bloody hell, it was on him to reach out first, wasn’t it?

Checking his watch, he winced. At this point, he’d be cutting it close if he were to meet Astoria on time tonight, but when would he get an opportunity like this again?

“Am I keeping you?” Granger asked. Her tone was mild, but there was an unmistakable bite to her words. “By all means, go ahead.”

“Er, no,” Draco said. “Actually… look. I rather think we should… talk…”

Granger’s brows shot skyward. “What, here?”

“In the _street?_ No, of course not in the street. There’s a little cafe up on the corner if you like.”

This time, they both ground to a halt. Granger narrowed her eyes at him but bit her lower lip as she considered. Draco considered that, in itself, a good sign.

“The _Prophet_ would have a field day.”

A field day? Draco waved her off. “You don’t have to worry about the _Prophet._ ”

"I don't have to worry about the– _What?_ Are you mental?”

“I assure you I’m not,” Draco said coolly. “But if you’d rather, there’s a Muggle pub just down the street from the Diagon entrance. We could go there.” He shrugged. “Or, you could just go home.”

He realised with a start that he really didn’t want her to go home.

Granger sighed. “You know what? Fine. The pub, not the cafe.”

Judging from the tone of her voice, it might be best if he just gave up and let her go. But… he really couldn’t. Dinner Friday was painful, and he couldn’t afford to let his lack of a relationship with her affect the one he’d so carefully cultivated with Harry and Ron.

He knew, after all, who they would turn to if they were forced to choose. And it wasn’t him.

“Alright.”

If the previous silence was tense and awful, the one that settled upon them as they walked down Diagon Alley to the Leaky Cauldron was worse. Draco didn't miss the way people's eyes fixed on him as he passed. He didn't miss the way Granger looked everywhere but at him, or the way her eyes lingered longer on storefronts that weren't present during their school days.

It hit him then that she was a woman out of time. Returning to the greater wizarding world had been difficult after his one-year house arrest; he couldn't imagine just how much worse it was for her after five years abroad.

And here he was, part of the problem.

“You go on ahead,” Granger murmured as they stepped into the Leaky. “I’m just gonna pop over and say hi to Hannah real quick.”

Draco looked up at the woman behind the bar, then lifted a hand in acknowledgement. He wasn't friends with Hannah Abbott—not really—but Longbottom was still good friends with Harry and Ron, so they were friendly acquaintances, at the very least.

Abbott returned his wave.

“Right, then,” he said, even as his gut clenched. He knew they were going to talk about him. “I’ll wait outside.” _Again._

It was a lovely day in London for early April, which meant it was a little nippy out, and the sky was its natural shade of grey. He should have cast a warming charm when he transfigured his robes before stepping out of Diagon.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Granger re-joined him. She looked a little less guarded than she did before, and he wondered just what it was Abbott said to her. In any case, it seemed to have been in his favour.

He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the pub was just down the street. He was glad for it, too, because he didn’t think he could take another moment of silence.

They slipped into an empty booth. “Do you… want something?” Granger asked, shucking her coat. Draco shook his head, though he appreciated the offer. She stood and, a minute later, came back with some red liquid in a clear glass.

She took a sip and stared at him over the rim, her eyebrows raised. “Well, Malfoy?”

“Draco,” Draco said on reflex. “Malfoy was–”

“Your father,” Granger finished dryly. “Yes, yes. Alright. Well, Draco?”

His name sounded odd, coming from her lips. The scrunch of her features told him it felt odd for her to say it, too. Oh, well. He’d gotten used to it coming from Harry and Ron. He supposed he’d get used to it coming from her, as well.

“Er. Truth is, I don’t really know where to start,” he said sheepishly. He hadn’t quite thought this far. Practically, at least. “I’m sorry about Friday. That wasn’t quite fair to you, was it?”

Granger heaved a sigh and set her glass down. “No, it wasn’t,” she agreed. “But why are _you_ apologising? It was hardly your fault.”

Draco hoped she couldn’t see the guilt in his expression. That she didn’t realise—though who was he kidding, she probably had—that he could have chosen to stay home but didn’t. That he’d forced the confrontation, just to get it over with.

That—wholly selfishly—he’d feared that if he skipped dinner once, it wouldn’t be the last, and he’d find himself edged out of his friends’ lives in favour of her.

“Just… seemed to be the easiest thing to start with,” he fibbed.

Granger nodded slowly. “Go on, then.”

Draco drew a deep breath. He'd imagined this moment for ages. Since their eighth year, really, when he couldn't even meet her eyes. And yet, now that the time had come, everything he'd rehearsed over the years left him.

“Er, for what it’s worth, I would like to formally apologise for the way I treated you in school.” He clasped his empty hands in front of him on the table, wishing he hadn’t turned down Granger’s offer of a drink. “I could make excuses, but… I won’t. I was a horrid little blighter, and you didn’t deserve any of that, either.”

“I dare say I didn’t.”

Draco froze. Merlin’s beard, he should have planned this better. “I’m astounded by the fact you only punched me once,” he found himself saying.

“I almost broke my hand on your face,” Granger said, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “It wasn’t worth it.” The smile faded almost immediately. “How did you become friends with Harry and Ron, anyway? I never would’ve seen that one coming.”

Draco blinked. “You mean they haven’t told you yet?”

Granger shrugged. “They have,” she said casually, staring down into her glass. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to hear it from you, as well.”

Well, shit. Had Hermione Jean Granger always been this ruthless?

He _really_ wished he’d accepted that drink.

“Well, as you already know, by the time my house arrest was up, I was so bloody tired of being home and doing nothing that I joined the Aurors for a bit. Wanted to do my part in rounding up the dregs.” Wanted to atone for what he’d played a part in. “Figured I had some insider knowledge that would be useful, and Longbottom had just quit, so there was an opening.”

He made a face. "Harry was the only one there who would give me the time of day. It got so bad that Robards had Weasley swap partners with me." With a snort, he added, “As you can imagine, Weasley was none too pleased about that.”

Granger shook her head, an affectionate look crossing her face. “No, I imagine not.”

“I’ll be honest, things were tense for a while. But, I suppose there are only so many dangerous situations you can get into and out of with someone before you have to consider them a friend. And once Potter was in, Weasley had to follow.”

Granger nodded. “Ron’s loyal like that.” She swirled the liquid in her glass and took a sip. “Look, Malfoy–”

“Draco.”

“Draco. They’re good people, and I’m glad… I’m glad you were there for them when I couldn’t be. Everyone deserves to have friends like them, and—pardon me for saying this—it sounds like you really needed some friends. I’m not going to take them from you.”

She’d said something similar Friday night. He found he believed her just a bit more now that she’d had time to think about it and wasn’t actively trying to avoid stepping on toes.

But…

“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming, here?”

Granger traced a finger through the condensation on the table as she avoided his eyes. “I know the man you are now is not the boy you used to be. That’s pretty clear. But…" She shook her head. "You were nasty to Harry and Ron in school; there's no denying that. But really, all… _else_ … aside, it could be chalked up to a particularly acrimonious schoolboy rivalry. Me, though?”

Draco froze at her words. She lifted her eyes to his, pinning him in place with her sombre gaze.

"It cut deep, Malfoy," she said. "I mean, Draco. That's not just something you get over. I know it's been six years since the end of the– the war, and all, and by this point, I should just forgive and move on but–" She shrugged one shoulder and offered him an expression that was half a lopsided smile, half a wince. "Truth be told, I've never been much good at that."

With that, Granger drained her glass and set it down. The sharp sound of the glass against the table underscored her point.

“I appreciate what you did for me today. But I also meant what I said earlier– I won’t be bought. It’s going to take more than some pretty words and gestures to make up for everything back then. Like I told the boys, it’s going to take some time.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. What _could_ he say? He’d never felt so fully—justifiably—eviscerated in his life. He dropped his eyes to the table and said nothing.

Granger nodded, then laid down a Muggle note for the drink. “I guess I’ll see you Friday,” she said, though not unkindly.

And then she was gone.

With a heavy sigh, Draco checked his watch. He should just go home—especially if he wanted to make it to dinner on-time—but he couldn't bring himself to stand.

Despite six years and all the progress he’d made, all it took was one woman to remind him that not all sins were forgivable.

He clenched his hands against the sudden white-hot spike of anger that drove through him. Lurching away from the table, he went to the bar, ordered a double whiskey, and knocked it back. He then shoved a Muggle note that was likely way too high at the barkeep, left the pub, and apparated home before the alcohol even began to kick in.

* * *

“You’re late.”

Astoria’s voice wasn’t cold, nor was it particularly accusatory. She stated this fact as casually as one might comment on the weather, but Draco still flinched.

“I know, I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Something came up at work.”

He knew he shouldn’t lie, but it rolled off his tongue before he could even really think about it. Besides, it wasn’t a full lie– he did indeed get held up _at_ work. Just… not _by_ work. Not that it mattered much. Astoria had never quite understood his friendship with Harry and Ron, and he’d gotten used to sidestepping the matter entirely.

He definitely wasn’t going to tell her that he’d met Hermione Granger and had his ass handed to him on a silver platter. Nor was he going to mention that he got drunk, sat on his sofa, and lost time as he got lost in every transgression he’d ever made toward Granger and her friends.

There was a reason he generally avoided alcohol. Thankfully, he’d had a Sober-Up on hand.

“Well, you’re here now,” Astoria said mildly. “Shall we go?”

Forcing a smile, Draco proffered his arm and walked her into the restaurant. It was one of his favourites, tucked away in a small wizarding town in Surrey. It was much less public than the fancy restaurants she preferred just off Diagon Alley, and it had a certain warmth to it that just wasn’t possible to achieve in London.

The staff all knew him by now and were familiar with Astoria, so they had reserved his favourite table in the back corner after he informed them he would be coming in tonight. He pulled Astoria’s chair out for her before taking his own.

Dinner was, as always, a little excruciating. Draco didn’t know why he found it such a chore. Astoria was nice enough, and he _did_ like her. Two years below him in school, she was not entirely _ignorant_ of how horrible he’d been—how could she be, with the court records so public—but she was entirely unaffected by it. Her parents had sheltered her and Daphne from the worst of the Death Eater movement, too; Draco supposed it was easier to do with daughters than with sons.

Would his parents have sheltered him had he been born a girl? He supposed he’d never know.

While he was incredibly grateful that Astoria had been spared the horrors he’d experienced, it made for a certain disconnect, and he felt she didn’t know him. That she _couldn’t_ know him. When he agreed to the engagement, he’d hoped to one day form a bond deep enough that he could open up to her.

Three years later, it had yet to happen.

It didn't help that if the war was so much as mentioned, she quickly and politely changed topics. The war hadn't affected her. It happened years ago. She saw no need to dwell on it any longer than she had to, and she felt that he shouldn't, either.

Draco, meanwhile, had a charmed window in his bedroom.

He knew they were expected to marry soon. Three years was a terribly long engagement, and both their parents were getting more pointed in dropping hints. He still hoped that one day, they’d click. His father really had loved his mother, at least until the Death Eater shit radicalised him and became his top priority.

Draco had already been through the latter. It was about time he got to experience the former.

Astoria may have broken from her parents' pureblood supremacy ideals, but she still didn't like the way the world was changing. Growing up, she’d dreamed of the day she married well and began living the life of a pureblood society wife. On a surface level, Draco knew it seemed like he could give her that.

And maybe the prospect wouldn’t feel as stifling as it did if he hadn’t befriended Harry and Ron. If he hadn’t been exposed to friendship unmarred by societal politics. If he hadn’t grown used to small, weekly dinners with genuine friends instead of formal dinner parties with people who might best be described as ‘potential allies.’

So, he listened politely as Astoria talked about her week, even as he silently dreaded the night he would share his wedding bed with her. After all, he still woke screaming some nights.

Would he frighten her? Would she grow tired of being woken? Would they even sleep in the same bed regularly? His parents hadn’t, toward the end.

He’d had nightmares Friday night.

He suspected he’d have nightmares again tonight.

Did Granger still get them?

He wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I studied abroad in Guildford for a semester. I thought having Draco live there would be a fitting tribute, and also that town certainly felt rich enough that it seems reasonable!


End file.
